Chapter 5 （continued）
Valerie
It’s a Tuesday, and I'm busy dusting the library when Sofia's sharp voice echoes down the corridor, followed by a woman's resigned response—drained, apologetic, but firm.
"My own child needs me. There’s been a medical emergency.”
"You're under contract—" Sofia hisses.
"I don't care! Find someone else! I need to go to my child!"
Footsteps storm past the library. A middle-aged woman I've seen with Mila—stern-faced, always impatient—rushes toward the exit clutching her bag. She doesn't look back.
Sofia appears in the doorway moments later, tablet in hand, expression thunderous.
"Miss Novak."
I straighten immediately, heart already racing. "Yes, ma'am?"
"The nanny position just opened unexpectedly." Her eyes narrow. "You've been helping with evening routines. Mila responds well to you. Mr. Volkov has noticed."
He's noticed. Of course, he's noticed. He sees everything.
"I—okay?"
“Full-time care for Mila, along with ongoing housekeeping duties. You would move to the east wing to be closer to her room. More responsibility.”
That basically means more access. More trust. Exactly what Patrick wants.
My stomach knots, but I keep my face calm. "I'd be honored."
"Good. Mr. Volkov would want to speak with you before finalizing arrangements.” She taps into her tablet, then looks back up at me. “His office. Three o'clock." She turns to leave, then pauses. "Don't be late. He doesn't tolerate it."
She's gone before I can respond.
I sink into the nearest chair, hands shaking.
More access. Patrick will be thrilled. This is perfect for the mission.
And I hate myself for thinking that way.
Because Mila deserves better than a spy pretending to care while gathering intelligence on her father. Deserves better than someone who braids her hair and reads her stories while calculating how to use the trust she's giving me.
Deserves better than me.
But Ethan's face flashes in my mind—trembling with fear, and trusting me to keep him safe. And I don't have a choice.
I pull out my phone and call Tash.
She answers immediately. "Please tell me you have good news because I'm dying in this godforsaken economics lecture."
"The nanny quit. Sofia offered me the position."
Silence. Then: "Holy shit, Val. That's—that's perfect! You'll have access to everything now!"
"I know."
"Then why do you sound like someone died?"
"Because Mila trusts me." My throat tightens. "She's seven, and she's been through hell, and she actually believes I care about her. And I'm lying. Using her to get to her father."
"You're surviving." Tash's voice goes firm. "Doing what you have to do to keep your family alive. That's not using her—that's staying alive long enough to figure a way out."
"Feels the same."
"It's not." She pauses. "Look, this is huge. We should celebrate! I'm taking you out tonight. Club, drinks, dancing—"
"No. Absolutely not."
"Come on! You've been trapped in that fortress for a week—"
"Exactly. One week. I can't just disappear to a club. What if Lev has someone following me? What if Patrick sees me not taking this seriously? What if—"
"What if, what if." She sighs dramatically. "You're so boring now."
"I'm trying not to die."
"Fine. No club." I can hear the smile creeping into her voice. "But you could use this promotion to your advantage in other ways. Get closer to Lev. Personally closer."
"Tash—"
"I'm just saying, the man clearly has a thing for you! Use it. Seduce him. Get him talking. Men are stupid when they're thinking with their—"
"I'm not seducing anyone!"
"Why not? You're already living in his house, taking care of his daughter. Just bat your eyelashes, wear something low-cut, and—"
"Have you completely lost your mind?"
"I'm being practical!" She's fully laughing now. "Or skip the subtle approach. 'Accidentally' walk in on him in the shower again. Worked last time."
"That wasn't—I didn't—" Words fail me completely.
"Or leave your door unlocked at night. Let him come to you. I bet he's the type who likes the chase but also likes taking what he wants—"
"I'm hanging up."
"Wait! What about roleplay? Pretend to be a helpless maid who needs discipline from her big, scary boss—"
"Goodbye, Tash!"
Her laughter follows me until I end the call.
Despite everything—the fear, the guilt, and the impossible trap, I catch myself smiling. Just for a second. Because Tash is ridiculous and inappropriate and exactly what I needed.
But the smile dies fast.
Three o'clock. Lev's office.
Two hours to prepare for whatever comes next.
At 2:58, I stand outside Lev's office door, trying to remember how breathing works.
The east wing is different from the rest of the house. Quieter. Heavier. Like the air itself carries more weight here. Fewer cameras, but I can feel eyes on me anyway. I hate the sensation of being watched, even when I can't see who's watching.
I raise my hand to knock, but the door opens before I make contact, and I freeze in place.
Lev stands there, filling the space, and my breath stops.
He's in black today—shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing those tattooed forearms covered in prison ink and scars. No jacket. No tie. Just lethal elegance and controlled violence wrapped in expensive fabric.
"You're early." His pale gray eyes track over me slowly as I move to step in. "I didn't say enter yet."
"I'm sorry, I thought—"
"Come in."
He gestures, and I'm left with no option but to walk past him into his office.
The space is exactly what I expected—dark wood, steel accents, windows overlooking grounds where armed men patrol. Everything designed for function and intimidation. The desk is massive, the chair behind it more throne than furniture.
The door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds like a cell locking.
"So," he starts to speak, and I move with shaky legs toward a chair across his desk.
But his hand wraps around my wrist before I can reach it, and suddenly I'm being pulled in a different direction, toward the center of the room, away from the desk, into open space where there's nothing to hide behind.
His voice is low and scratchy. "Stand here."
He lets me go of my wrist and steps back before he starts circling. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a predator assessing prey before the kill.
I feel his eyes tracking every detail, my hands trembling at my sides, the way I can't quite meet his gaze, how my breath comes too fast. The scent of his cologne hits me as he passes behind, something dark and expensive mixed with gunpowder that makes my head spin.
"Sofia tells me you've accepted the nanny position." He stops behind me, close enough that I feel his body heat. "Full-time care for my daughter. Correct?"
"Yes." My voice comes out thin.
"Why?"
"Because… because I like working with Mila. She's a good kid."
"That's not what I asked." His breath ghosts across the back of my neck, raising goosebumps. "I asked why. What do you gain from this?"
Money. Access. Information Patrick can use to murder you.
"A stable job. Good pay. A chance to help a child who—"
"Careful." He's in front of me now, suddenly, and I didn't hear him move. "We've discussed lying and how I feel about it."
His hand comes up to my face, and I flinch, but I have nowhere to go.
His fingers dig into my jaw, not gently, not carefully, rough skin catching on mine, forcing my head up so I have no choice but to meet his eyes.
"If you hurt my daughter," his voice drops to something cold and lethal, "I will make you beg for death. Do you understand?"
"Yes." It comes out barely audible.
"I don't think you do." His grip tightens, and pain blooms sharp and bright where he's pressing too hard.
"Let me be very clear, Valerie. Mila is all I have left.
She is the only thing in this world I care about more than my own survival.
And if you, through malice or carelessness or whatever game you're playing, cause her pain? "
He leans closer, until his face is inches from mine. Until I can see the pale ring around his irises, count the individual scars on his face, smell the coffee on his breath mixing with cologne and violence.
"I will break every bone in your body. Slowly. One at a time. Keep you alive through all of it so you feel every second. Then, when there's nothing left to break, I'll make it hurt worse. Much worse. Do. You. Understand?"
"Yes." I'm crying silently now, unable to stop because I’m definitely going to die trying to save my mom and brother. Hot tears roll down my face. "Yes, I understand."
"Good girl." But he doesn't release me. His thumb drags across my jaw, rough, possessive, claiming and heat floods through me despite the threat, despite the pain blooming under his grip, despite everything screaming that I should be terrified and nothing else.
My nipples tighten against my uniform. Sharp and obvious. Wetness pools between my thighs, warm and slick, and I want to die from the shame of it.
His eyes drop to my chest, he notices, of course he fucking notices and something dark and hungry flickers across his face.
"You're afraid of me." Not a question. Statement of fact.
"Yes."
"But that's not all you're feeling right now, is it?"
I don't answer. Can't form words past the shame choking me.
His thumb moves to my bottom lip, pressing down hard enough that I taste copper where the skin splits. The pain should make me want to pull away. Instead, my breath catches in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
"Your body knows what you won't admit." His voice drops lower, intimate and threatening. "That fear and desire aren't as different as you'd like to believe. That sometimes they're exactly the same thing."
"That’s… that’s not true."